Song of Myself
by Macalaure
Summary: I am a paper girl in a paper town and this is the Song of Myself.
1. Chapter 1

The girl sat alone at a desk inside a deserted barn. The barn was deserted because it wasn't a real place. Cartographers had put it on a map years ago as a copyright trap. It was only a paper town. How fitting, a paper girl in a paper town.

The girl caressed the dark leather of the black moleskin notebook she held firmly in long slim fingers. The dark red paint that had once adorned them—a night faraway in another life—was long since chipped off. She opened the book and was met with familiar flowing words crisscrossing across the pages. She flipped to a blank page and laid a worn ballpoint pen to the paper.

And Margo Roth Spiegelman began to write.

_I Am a paper Girl in a paper Town And this is the Song of Myself. _

_I am a writer,  
__Who Scrawls the dreams and Hopes of a ten-Year old girl,  
__And the Plots and schemes Of a high school senior._

_I am a planner,  
__Who will stay Up nights Plotting And scheming acts Of valor,  
__Only to Be disappointed when everything goes according To Plan._

_I am a Restless spirit,  
__Who cannot and Will Not bear To live in a town made Of paper,  
__Where all the Buildings are flimsy and the People transparent._

_I am a lover Scorned,  
Who spent her childhood building Up the image of a dauntless Hero,  
__Only to have It proven Wrong and then right Again._

_I Am clay,  
__That which Anyone who Comes along can Mold Into whatever shape  
__They Wish to please Themselves._

_I am a mirror,  
__Not a Window, for I Reflect back what Others want to see In me,  
__Rather Than reveal who I am._

_I am A spider web,  
__With strings Stretching out in every direction Quivering with Anticipation  
Being cut One by One._

_I Am a paper girl in a Paper Town and this Is The Song of Myself_

* * *

_Paper Towns _belongs to John Green and "Song of Myself" belongs to Walt Whitman (though this is not an excerpt from the poem).


	2. Chapter 2

We walked together, Quentin and I, along the crest of the hill. Below us was sprawled the town I had never bothered to find the name of, but it didn't matter. All of that was a different world. I lay down and he lay beside me. Up in the sky the clouds crawled across the blue and below us, the grass tickled our bare feet. Perhaps, my moment of weakness, when I posted that comment on Omnidictionary, had been a blessing in disguise.

We awoke some time later. The sun was disappearing below the horizon and the boy next to me slept. I stand and then stoop down to reach the soft earth. It comes away with little effort but Quentin stirs. He comes up by my side and dips cupped hands into the soil, scooping out handfulls of it. "What are we digging to?" he asks.

I smile. "That's not the right question. The question is, who are we digging for."

"Okay then," he says, taking the bait, "Who are we digging for?"

"We are digging the graves for little Margo and little Quentin and puppy Myrna Mountweazel and poor dead Robert Joyner."

We continue to dig and the ground opens up before us. When it's time, we place the little black book into the hole. We each grab a handful of dirt. My hand reaches out over the pit and the soft silt slips through my fingers. Quietly, I recite.

_"About their easy heads, my prayers_  
_I spoke with syllables of clay._  
_What gift, I asked, shall I bring now_  
_Before I weep and walk away?"_

Stepping in mid-stride Quentin finishes.

_"Take, they replied, the oak and laurel.  
Take our fortunes of tears and live  
Like a spendthrift lover. All we ask  
Is the one gift you cannot give."_

He drops in a handful of dirt and we nudge the rest of the pile in, completely covering the little book. I don't really know why I am doing this, and I don't realize the implications until later. I was leaving it all behind, everything that I was and started fresh, a new life. And I shed no tears for the old life I left behind, save but for one boy.

And those tears came when he was far, far behind.

* * *

I pull into a gas station and wander around the store while my tank filled. In the corner of my vision, something catches my eye, a black leather-bound book. I bring it to the cash register and pay for it with shaking hands. Back inside the car, I pat my pockets and came up with the worn pen.

The pages are clear and clean, unadulterated by any hand but mine. It is blank from cover to cover: a clean slate, a new life, a second chance. Once more I placed the pen to the paper and write in the familiar crisscrossing pattern.

_I Am a vessel  
That as it cracks With Pressure from all my Insecurities pushing In  
Allows My invisible light To shine out._

_I am a Dreamer  
Who May one day find a Life, a place, a Purpose, And a friend  
To calm My Restless spirit._

_I was a Paper girl In a paper town, and This is the Song of Myself._

* * *

The poem is A_t the British war cemetery, Bayeux, _by Charles Causely.


End file.
